


Atrophy

by Taffine (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Taffine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Atrophy.</p>
<p>Verb.</p>
<p>‘To waste away; wither or deteriorate.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atrophy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZtHfdMqn5T4
> 
> Set in a doomed timeline

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are currently writing a letter.

You have always been good at writing. Letters. Stories. Essays. The words came so easily; the moment you laid pen to paper they would flow smoothly like black ink, appearing on the page with effortless grace.

Today, the ink is blotchy.

You ponder this as you sit at your desk. Perhaps, you consider, it is due to anxiety. You must admit to some level of anxiousness clouding your thoughts. You have not tried to write in such a state before. It is proving to be quite the writer’s block; you would not recommend it to your fellow writers. You should mention that sometime, when things are back to normal.

You often write tips at the beginning of your works of fiction. After all, it’s never a bad idea to share writing tips. You’ve taken a few yourself, though it is rare to find any writers with quite the extensive vocabulary you have. 

No. You need to stop deluding yourself. Things will not go back to normal, and you know that; you know that you cannot fall into the delusion that things will turn out well.

Common reaction to a traumatic incident. Deluding oneself. Why didn’t you pick up on it sooner?

You belatedly realise that you are much better at psychoanalysing others than you are yourself.

.  
.  
.  
.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are having significant difficulty writing a letter.

You no longer think it is due to anxiety. 

You tap the wooden desk with your pen thoughtfully. No use thinking into it too much; you know the reason, and you know it well. 

You know John is dead.

Writing this letter is much more difficult than you originally anticipated, and you can’t help but get distracted. Treacherous, you think, scowling lightly as your mind lingers on the past once again. Distant pesterlogs, muffled memories. A flash of blue eyes, the soft melody of a piano playing.

You give up. Steady and composed, you make your way to your bedroom, and your hands are not shaking. You lie down on your bed and stare at the ceiling. You wait. Nothing happens.

You take deep breathes to help yourself relax. You are perfectly calm, and your hands are not shaking. Rolling over, you draw your knees close to your chest and curl up in what vaguely resembles a ball. It consists of limbs that have become knobby and clearly show your skeletal structure underneath. You study this with interest, ignoring the implications it most certainly has. 

You attempt to trace your obtrusive bones with a hand, but find your fingers firmly clamped around your writing pen. Your hands are still not shaking.

When you finally fall asleep, the pen is still in your grasp.

.  
.  
.  
.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you cannot write a letter.

You push away from your desk calmly, taking precautions to stop your chair scraping atrociously against the wooden floorboards of what was once your living room. 

You step outside, into the colour-laced rain. It trickles down your skin softly, barely making a sound as it hits the ground. You stare out at the ocean. Light waves ripple across its surface, mindless of the lack of wind needed to create such disturbances. Just another mechanic of the game, you suppose. Once, you would have abhorred such an abomination to the laws of physics. Now, you couldn’t care less.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you have been writing a letter for approximately two months now. So far, you have managed to scrawl a sharp, ugly, “Dearest John,”. Since then, you have tapped fingers and feet and hands in a disarray that could barely be considered a rhythm. You are sure that, could he hear it, Dave would be appalled. 

You’re not quite sure what to call the last two months, but you think you have a word for it: 

Atrophy.  
 _Verb._  
‘To waste away; wither or deteriorate.’ 

Recently, you have found your bed to be cold and unwelcoming. It is not, you have found, soft enough for your liking. You have decided today would be a good time to look for a new bed.

In fact, you think you have found the perfect bed. It may be a little cold, at first, but it will be soft as cotton and silk and the downy feathers of a bird.

Smiling, you take a step into the ocean. 

_You’ll be glad to find a more comfortable bed._

A few more steps, the water is lapping at your waist now.

_You know the seabed will be a nice home._

It is up to your neck, now, and you barely have to take a step before you are fully submerged. It is calm under here. Light. Quiet. Everything is muffled.

_But most of all_

You slowly feel your breath running out. Your smile does not cease.

_you will be glad to see John._

**Author's Note:**

> bluh bluh what is this  
> drabble, i guess?


End file.
